Because he wanted to take me higher. Because he wanted to mark me as his.
Cole August was in love with me whether he admitted it or not. And that simple reality not only made me happy, it made me proud.
"You didn't know me as a child," Cole continued. "I was wild. Anything would set me off. It was Bree who taught me control. It was Bree who kept me grounded. Not so much because she did anything--hell, for most of that time, she was just a baby. But it was the fact of her. The fact that there was this little person in my life, and I was responsible for her. Because by that time, my grandmother was broken. She was there--but she'd checked out. I was father and brother and best friend all rolled into one for Bree. And for the longest time, she was my world."
"She's great," I said. "I think she's a walking testimonial to your exceptional parenting skills."
"Or to her own exceptional personality."
"That, too," I agreed. "But there's more to the story than your mutual admiration."
He paused under an awning. "Yeah. There is."
I waited, giving him time. Then he reached out and touched my shoulder. Just a simple brush of a finger over the thin material of my shirt. But I knew that he was taking stock. Making sure that I was real and this moment wasn't going to evaporate. "I want to tell you everything," he finally said. "Kat, you have to know--there's no one else I've told all of this to. No one else knows everything that happened with Anita or everything I'm about to tell you. Not even Bree. Not even Tyler and Evan."
That fist that sometimes clenched around my heart started to close again, and I drew in a ragged breath as I nodded. And then, because I couldn't not kiss him, I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his. "Thank you," I said simply.
A small smile touched his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He'd gone back into memories, and his words when they came seemed far away.
"Bree was raped," he said flatly, without preamble. "Beaten. Worked over like you wouldn't believe."
"Oh, god. Cole, I'm so sorry."
"She was eight years old at the time. Eight. I was looking to find a way out. I'd pissed some people off, including a rival gang. Their punishment was for one of their new recruits to earn his stripes by raping that little girl." His voice broke. "They almost destroyed one of the best people you will ever know because of me. Because they wanted to punish me."
"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't," I repeated more harshly because I wanted him to hear me.
"Maybe not," he said. "But everything that happened afterward was."
"What happened?" I asked, certain that I could guess his answer.
"I lost it," he said. "I completely flew off the handle." He met my eyes. "I killed them. The fucker who raped her, and the co-captains of the gang who'd set him up to do it."
I swallowed, but I didn't say anything. What could I say? That I understood? I did. That the bastards who would do that to a little girl deserved it? I sure as hell thought so, but I knew damn well the courts didn't.
And I knew that Cole had to live with the consequences of his actions each and every day.
"I can't even remember making the decision to do it, but I can remember with absolute clarity how good it felt to smash my fist into their flesh. To feel their bones shatter. To snuff the life from each of them. I liked it, Kat. Hell, I sought it out. I needed it. Because that was the only way to turn off the rage that had burst out of me like a goddamn geyser."
"They tortured a child. You defended her. You stood up for her and went to the mat for her. And because you did, she's grown up to be one hell of a woman."
He didn't say anything, but he seemed to draw in my words like oxygen, as if simply having them there to hold on to made everything else just a little bit easier to handle.
"I was caught, of course. If I'd been even halfway in my head, maybe I could have figured out a way to cover up what I'd done, but I couldn't manage it in the state I was in. I was arrested. I was tried. I was convicted. And that's how I met Evan and Tyler."
"The scared straight camp? They sent you there even with three murder convictions?"
"I had the diagnosed impulse control issues--thank you, crack baby syndrome," he said with disgust. "And there was an experimental program running through the system then. They sealed my record because I was a juvenile and under the terms of the program, if a defendant is later arrested for homicide, the sealed file can be opened and used as evidence in the adult homicide case."
He shrugged. "In other words, I'll never shake my past."
"You don't have to shake it," I said. "You just have to live with it. Like everybody else on the planet. But it's done, and it's behind you. And didn't you once tell me you preferred to live life moving forward?"
"That sounds like something I'd say," he admitted. "That doesn't necessarily make it true or smart."
"Bullshit. You're not going to kill anyone. Your past is sealed up and gone, and it's going to stay that way. You just have to trust yourself to move forward. Or if you can't trust yourself, then trust me. Because I trust you completely, and I'm a very smart woman."
As I hoped, he smiled. But it faded quickly. "I can't imagine killing anyone intentionally now," he said. "But the darkness inside me hasn't gone away. The impulse control issues that nailed me as a kid--as a teenager. They're still all right there, and I know that any moment I can go completely off the rails. It's like spending your life walking on dynamite."
"But you don't go off the rails, Cole. Don't you see?"
"I'm fighting every damn day, Kat."
"But that's the point. You're fighting. You're winning." I slid my arms around his waist and moved in close. "You have more control than you give yourself credit for."
"Someday I'm going to lose that battle and seriously hurt someone." He hooked a finger under my chin and tilted my head up. "What if it's you?"
"Not possible. For one thing, you're not going to lose it. You may not see how strong you are, but I do. For another thing, the only way you'll hurt me is if you leave me." I swallowed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. "Don't leave me, Cole," I said, knowing that those words were stripping bare my soul. "Please don't ever leave me."
"No," he said, pulling me close. And though the word that he said was "never," in my heart, I knew that the message was, I love you.
twenty-two
Katrina Laron--domestic goddess.
That's how I felt as I stood in the living room of my new house surrounded by pails of paint, drop cloths, brushes, and rollers.
The movers were scheduled for the next morning, and I was hoping to at least get the living room painted so that once the furniture arrived I could assemble one room and feel as though I had accomplished something.
Not that I'd be completely done with that room. I'd still need to deal with the floors, getting curtains, fixing the window panes that seemed likely to stick no matter what the weather, and all the other wonderful, happy, irritating quirks that came with home ownership.
I'd had the place for a grand total of three hours, and I was already desperately, hopelessly in love.
And speaking of desperately, hopelessly in love, I heard the familiar rhythm of Cole's footsteps crossing the front porch, and I turned in time to see him open the screen door and step inside.
He carried two wrapped presents tucked under his arm--one big and one small. His other hand held tight to a toolbox on top of which he was balancing a bundle of roses.
"For me?"
"No, I just like to carry presents and roses whenever I take my tools out. Makes the repair work seem more festive."
I rolled my eyes, and hurried to help him before he dropped everything--and to get a kiss.
"Congratulations," he said, after he brushed his lips tenderly over mine. "You look beautiful. Home ownership suits you."
Considering my hair was shoved up into a baseball cap and I was wearing ancient paint-splattered cargo pants and an old Disneyland T-shirt, I knew he was lying. But I still appreciated the t
hought.
"I don't have anything to put the flowers in yet," I said, looking around the room as if a stunning crystal vase would magically materialize. "But I think there's a soda cup from Taco Bell in the trash. We can use that."
He went to dig it out and fill it with water while I unwrapped the flowers from paper and plastic. We put them on the hearth, then stood back and admired them.
"Definitely makes the place more homey."
"There's more," he said, nodding at the other two presents that were now on the floor.
I grinned up at him, feeling like a kid at Christmas. "You didn't have to, but I'm thrilled you did."
He laughed, then pointed to the larger, flat one. "That one first."
I picked it up, easily able to tell that there was a framed piece of artwork hidden beneath the wrapping paper. "I hope it's a Cole August original," I said. "Those things are just going to shoot up in value."
"The man's got talent," he said. "Go ahead. Open it."
I did, then gasped when I saw the image on the canvas--the image of me. This one was different from the one that hung in the gallery, and I hadn't seen it in his studio. I was naked, my back facing the viewer, my hands flat against a red wall. My legs were spread just a bit, not so much as to be obscene, but enough to be suggestive. And there was no mistaking my tattoo. For that matter, anyone who might not be able to read it could easily pick the words up from the delicate script on the wall. Ad Astra. To the stars.
"It's amazing," I said sincerely. "Stunning and provocative. How on earth did you do this so quickly? I mean, when did you find the time?"